Oberon's Dreams - By Aaron Pogue Page 0,70

could not have outdone its roar, nor the pace-long lick of flame that stabbed toward the prince. That flash lit the room red for one terrible instant.

The shot from the dwarves’ hand cannon ended Ephitel’s charge. It pierced the prince’s back just left of his spine and exploded out his chest, ripping a fist-sized hole out of his fancy-dress uniform. The flash burned out as quickly as it had come, then time and darkness rushed back in to fill the gap.

Ephitel fell. Corin saw it in vague silhouette, shadows against gloom. The prince fell to his knees, Godslayer limp within his grasp. The four guards still on their feet took flight, throwing down their swords and dashing from the room. Avery and Kellen stood ashen faced and motionless, every bit as frightened as the departed guards. They had never seen a firearm in use before. Corin hadn’t seen it often, and never from this close.

But he felt no sympathy for Ephitel. The beast had still not fallen. Even with a hole clean through him. He sat upon his heels with his chin drooped down against his chest. Remembering the powder barrels in the cavern, Ephitel’s dark plans for the city, Corin aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger one more time. Corin had half suspected this strange gun, with all its extra barrels, might fire other shots, but nothing happened. The pirate shrugged, almost glad, and went to fetch Godslayer.

Before he’d gone one step, Ephitel’s corpse shook with a violent tremor. Avery and Kellen shrank away, and even Corin hesitated. When nothing happened, Corin took another step. This time Ephitel fell forward, bowing prostrate to the other two. His frame began to shake, and through the ringing in his ears, Corin heard what he took at first to be a death rattle. And then a cough. And then he cursed.

“The sword!” He threw aside the gun and sprinted forward. “Get the sword! Gods’ blood, get the sword!”

The others didn’t move, too baffled or afraid. Corin dove forward, scraping over the rough stone floor beside the fallen elf. He reached with both hands, grabbing for the legendary blade.

But Ephitel wrenched it away. Corin leaped on top of him, grabbing at his wrist with both hands, and beneath him Ephitel shook and shook with laughter.

“It didn’t work!” he boomed. “Even guns cannot defeat me!”

Corin wrapped arms and legs around Ephitel’s arm. He planted one foot against the prince’s jaw and the other against his rib cage. He grabbed the crosspiece on Godslayer’s guard in both hands. He strained his legs and heaved with all his might, and for one crushing heartbeat he feared it still wouldn’t be enough.

Then the godling gave a groan and the sword slipped from his grasp. As hard as he’d been pulling, Corin flung the sword away. It rang out when it struck the stone floor, throwing sparks, then skipped off into the darkness of the cavern.

Corin tried to scramble after it, terrified. Nothing he had done had stopped this monster, but his every hope lay in capturing that sword. He made it to his feet as Ephitel roared. “Nevertheless!” Then the lord protector curled his hand into a fist and bowled Corin across the room with one blow.

As Corin sprawled, Ephitel climbed unsteadily back to his feet. His shirt and pants clung to his frame, slick with blood, but beneath the gap torn in his tabard, he had only pale flesh, smooth and perfect as new-quarried marble. There was no wound at all. “I am Ephitel of the High Moor! I am a lord of war and prince of all Hurope! You cannot hurt me!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Avery and Kellen darted over to check on Corin. He saw the terror in their eyes, and it was no surprise. The last three minutes had contained three of the most horrifying things he’d ever seen. But if they didn’t act fast, Ephitel might add three more.

Corin waved a hand toward the prince resurgent and hissed toward the others, “You’re both elves. Can you do that?”

Kellen and Avery both shook their heads, the yeoman’s bruised complexion answer enough.

“But Ephitel and Oberon—”

Again they shook their heads. Kellen said, “The only one I’ve ever heard of who could survive a blow like that is…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to. Corin’s people knew that legend, too. There had been a pagan lord of war named Memnon, invulnerable in battle. He’d been slain by the hero Aeraculanon, who had forged the sword